


The Benedict Affair

by subjunctive



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Case Fic, F/M, Undercover as a Couple, steampunk avengers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-27
Updated: 2015-06-27
Packaged: 2018-04-05 11:53:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4178826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subjunctive/pseuds/subjunctive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha invites Bruce on a mission to be her undercover date. Things go both better and worse than Bruce expects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Benedict Affair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [paperclipbitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperclipbitch/gifts).



"Ooh, that's good," Natasha observed, circling him. "Very dapper."

Bruce fiddled with the cuffs of the suit jacket. "Been a while since I wore this."

She nodded absently while she scrutinized him. "We'll have to take it in a bit."

He lost weight on his trek through the underdeveloped world, and even after joining Tony (Bruce refused to call him _Sir Anthony Stark_ , as was his gleefully egotistical preference) he had never quite gained it all back. The suit hung loose on him. Fortunately, Natasha was not one to pity him – or, if she did, she hid it well.

She retrieved something from her purse. When her hand opened, he saw a pair of cufflinks inscribed with the design of a watch's interior: perfect little gears and notches. The letters _R.S._ were written in an ornate script around the edge. 

"Roxxon Steam," said Natasha. "Perfect for our cover, don't you think?"

They were going to a private party hosted by one of the Roxxon inventors, Sir Marshall Benedict. Even before Bruce's little green problem began, he had known who Benedict was. An egotistical genius, responsible for much of the world's locomotive technology. Rumors were he had developed an interest in the more arcane alchemical arts over the past several years, but Bruce didn't know much about that. According to SHIELD, Benedict had been approached privately by an organization pretending to be SHIELD. They had commissioned him secretly to develop a weapon for them. Something with enormous destructive potential - that was all they knew. Benedict was supposed to be meeting with them the night of the party to deliver the plans. It was Natasha's job to intercept them. 

And to stop anyone who got in their way. The thought brought him back to the present. "And what do they really do?"

"See these fasteners on the back?" she asked as she held them up so he could get a better look. They looked more like stud earrings than any cufflinks he'd ever seen. "The point is sharp and has to be covered – it injects a dose of sleeping serum. In case you get into a tight spot and I'm not there to help you."

Bruce studied them. "Is the serum for someone else or for me?"

She shrugged one shoulder, unruffled by his pointed question. "Either way. It's fast-acting stuff. Should knock you out before the transformation gets very far. This is purely a worst-case scenario," she added. "I'm not expecting you to be in a lot of danger."

"Unlike you." He held out his hands for the cufflinks, but she didn't drop them in. Instead she tugged his cuffs so she could slip them into place herself. It was an intimate gesture, like something a wife might do. Bruce felt the skin of his wrists prickle under her light touch. His face felt warm.

"You're just my arm candy," she said playfully. There was a long moment between them when she looked up at him.

Natasha's mission only required one agent. Yet she had asked him to join her. He hadn't asked what her reasons were, too afraid of the answer even as he turned the question over in his mind again and again. He thought he might know. He could ask.

But even as he licked his lips and prepared to, she was already turning away. Her bright hair disguised her face. "Have a tailor take that in before Thursday. You can use S.H.I.E.L.D.'s resources if you need to."

"I'm sure Tony has someone."

"Probably five someones," she agreed.

"Each for a different day of the week," Bruce guessed.

"Or color." They both laughed.

She demonstrated how to put them on and take them off without accidentally pricking himself and deposited the cufflinks in his hand when she was finished. Then Natasha gathered her things and began leaving. He watched her go, fingering the cuffs of his jacket. Already the memory of her touch was fading.

She paused at the door, turning back slightly. "Hey, Doc?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for coming with me." She flashed him a smile.

He ran his finger around the back of one metal fastener, making sure it was secure. "No – yeah, no problem. You're welcome, I mean."

She glanced down at his hands. He stopped fidgeting immediately. "Be careful with those. They're in your hands now." She smiled at the double meaning and turned away.

They would only be separated by a few rooms, but it felt like miles. He spent a long time thinking about that distance after she left.

* * *

"Why are we here for three days again?" he leaned down to whisper in her ear, narrowly dodging a passing waiter's tray. They were all automata, he noted, inferior-quality rip-offs of Tony's Jarvis but without the butler's charm and spark of true intelligence.

She leaned more heavily on his arm as she pulled herself up to reply, a small, private smile on her lips that he would recognize no matter what color her hair was. Today it was blond and pulled back in something messy and elegant. "Relax, Bruce. It's a party. They're literally made to have fun at."

"Fun? Oh, this is fun! Danger and more danger. Right. How could I forget."

She turned to scan the room. Even though he couldn't see her face, he could hear her amusement as she said, "You're grumpy today."

He glanced down at his suit. It had looked more impressive the other day, when he hadn't worn it for years. Now, in this glittering ballroom, it felt shabby and worn. Not a little like himself. "Let's say I feel a tad underdressed."

"Bruce, you look fine." Her voice was so steady and sure, if quiet, that he almost believed her. "You're very distinguished."

"I can't believe you made me wear a monocle," he muttered.

She flashed a smile at a passerby and squeezed his arm. There was laughter in her voice, just for him. "Monocles are sexy."

"You're such a liar."

"You've spent the last decade wandering around the poorest places on the globe," she pointed out. "You don't know a thing about contemporary fashion."

"I know that there is not a single other person here besides a seventy-year-old retired soldier wearing a _monocle_." 

"They're making a comeback," she insisted in the face of his disdain.

They paused at an older, rotund gentleman.

"Sir Stewart!" Natasha exclaimed, just as if she were greeting an old friend. "It's been so long I've seen you!"

The man's brow was furrowed in puzzlement, and then it smoothed out. "Ah, of course, Miss -" He squinted.

"It's Mrs. now. This is my husband, Dr. Roberts." Natasha nudged Bruce, who held out his hand obediently. "Darling, this is Sir Thomas Stewart, 

"Nice to meet you," said Bruce, then added perversely, "I've heard so much about you."

Natasha feigned embarrassment. "Darling, how can you blame me? How many times does one meet someone so famous?"

Bruce's mouth twitched. The game wasn't just a game, he reminded himself; it was important that they were believable. But just because they were technically working, that didn't mean they couldn't enjoy themselves a little. It was easy in the warm glow of the ballroom to pretend they were something other than what they were.

When the old man was gone, Natasha turned to Bruce and murmured, "I don't think he remembered my name."

He pursed his lips against a smile. "Champagne?" he suggested at a normal volume, like a real husband would.

"You are such a sweetheart!" Natasha beamed. Holding back a chuckle at her façade, he retrieved two glasses from one of the servers. 

"Enjoy, sir," droned the automaton before moving on.

"What should we toast to?" murmured Bruce, handing her one flute. Her fingers curled gracefully around the stem. The champagne fizzed and sparked between them; he was caught up in the moment.

She was silent for a moment or two longer than he expected, some of the good humor disappearing from her face as she thought. It was as if she couldn't think of a suggestion, or that what she wanted to suggest she couldn't say.

"Don't over-think it," he joked weakly.

Finally, she said, "To the Society."

Hope drained from him. "The Society." Of course. Her work for SHIELD came first. Their glasses clinked together. He took a sip of the champagne, but it wasn't as light or as sweet as he expected. He watched as she tipped her glass up against closed lips, doubting that she swallowed any at all. No drinking during a mission.

The mission – _her_ mission – was why they were here at all. She was leading them around the perimeter of the grand room slowly, trying, he gathered, to place everyone, assess possible threats, and locate her target. The way she pressed herself to his side was part of their cover, he reminded himself.

"There he is," she murmured for his benefit. The lift of her chin indicated a graying man near the center of the room, surrounded by a group of fawning sycophants.

"Sir Benedict."

"See his cane?"

That was her real goal. "How will you get it away from him?"

"I don't know yet." She slipped her hand into the small of his back. For the benefit of anyone watching, surely. "We'll watch and see." 

Disenchanted, he discarded the champagne glass at the first opportunity. Secretly he could admit to himself he had been excited at the suggestion of a night away with Natasha when it was first offered to him. There had been something glitzy and romantic about the prospect when he let himself think about it – an escape. But now – hours of pretending? It sounded a lot more like torture.

Eventually they finagled a seat around Benedict, Natasha inserting them deftly into his circle of admirers. As the night grew late and the champagne flowed freely, Sir Benedict became more relaxed and effusive. "If I dare say so myself, there is no reason to fear a war with Prussia at all."

"How could you know something like that, sir?" asked someone else with avid curiosity, leaning forward.

Benedict leaned back and steepled his fingers, clearly enjoying the attention of his admirers. "My boy, my boy, my ear is to the ground of the latest weapons technology. Of course I can't reveal classified information, so don't tempt me. But I maintain we will have a distinct advantage. I don't think it would be exaggerating to say that it wouldn't be a long one!"

Everyone including Natasha oohed and aahed about this bit of non-information, so Bruce tried to look suitably impressed. He couldn't help but think: in another life, it could have been him there, sitting in that chair, boasting about his achievements, one of the most sought-after scientists and inventors in the world. Was this really the life he had wanted? Benedict was proud and easily manipulated. He'd almost created a weapon of mass destruction for the enemy. Bruce would have liked to think he was smarter than that, but he knew better than anyone his own weaknesses. It wasn't often he felt the slightest bit grateful for the Hulk.

* * *

" _Idiot,_ " said Natasha with feeling when they were alone. "Pig. Moron. He almost gave himself away. I'm surprised he's managed to survive this long, working with HYDRA."

"Tell me how you really feel."

Natasha shook her head, still clearly incensed. "If he was just a traitor, that would be one thing. Traitors I can deal with. I have to keep this jackass alive."

She led them along the dark hallway Sir Benedict had disappeared down. Bruce wondered whether he should really be here for this part - stealthy and quiet was not exactly his expertise - but Natasha was the expert. If she wanted him somewhere else, she would have said so.

Natasha paused before a set of heavy oak doors, one of them propped open slightly. Here he was, waiting for his employers.

"Come in with me, but watch the door," she said, sotto voce. "Let me know when you hear them coming."

Bruce fingered one of his cufflinks and nodded, eyes sweeping the dim corridors.

"Sir Benedict," she announced, sweeping the door open. "You've been lied to."

As the old man squawked and protested, Bruce closed the door almost all the way and waited there for sounds of approach.

"I know you think you've been working with a secret branch of the government who has commissioned your technology. You're a patriot – I know you would do anything for your country."

That was laying it on a bit thick, in Bruce's opinion. The man was a self-satisfied, fame-addled, easily flattered opportunist. But anything to get him to give up the plans.

"The truth is, that's not the case at all . . ."

Bruce half-listened as she explained the situation to Benedict, who grew increasingly defensive and outraged. A few sounds in the distance. Remnants of the party? Or voices drawing nearer? Either was possible.

"They're not coming to collect their plans and pay you. They're coming to kill you." She nodded toward Bruce. "We're here to protect you."

"Now listen here, miss. If you think I would believe -"

Bruce pressed his ear to the crack of the door. Those were the light thumps of footfalls growing louder. "I think someone's coming," he whispered.

Natasha drew away from him and toward Bruce. "You're in luck, Sir Benedict. We're going to save your life tonight." She stood next to him and listened with him. "Two, I think. You okay?"

His heart rate was up, but not that much. He nodded.

"Stay with him," she murmured. "Get ready. I can handle this."

When the door pushed open, Natasha dragged the first masked figure into the room, kicked him between the legs, and punched him three times, making him fall to his knees and double over. It all happened before the next figure even realized what was going on. Bruce could see in his body language the moment he did realize – that instinctive drawing-away and hesitation.

The one moment was enough for Natasha, who promptly got him in a chokehold until he passed out next to his partner.

Next to Bruce, Benedict was sweaty and pale and clearly beginning to panic. "What is the meaning of this? Who are these – who are _you_ -"

Natasha grunted as she trussed up the two faceless attackers together. When she was finished, she swept off one of the masks and turned to Benedict. "Recognize anyone?"

His mouth fell open and wobbled. "I – I don't understand, why . . ."

"They work for an organization called HYDRA. They commissioned your weapon. The designs for which are in a compartment in your cane?" Natasha nodded toward the object. 

Benedict clutched his cane closer to his chest. "If I couldn't trust them, how can I trust you?" 

"That's the first smart thing you've said tonight," said Natasha grudgingly. "But I think we bought some goodwill by saving you from your would-be assassins." Her voice gentled somewhat. "We'll bring you straight through Society headquarters if you want. You have to be debriefed anyway. But until then, the plans are better protected with me than you. This is my job." 

Bruce could see the moment he decided it was better to go along with her reflected on his face. He unscrewed the bottom of the cane and drew the plans out in several sheets of parchment. Natasha rolled them up and slid them into a compartment in her dress, where they were invisible. 

"Mission accomplished," she said briskly. "Let's get out of here." 

* * *

The carriage ride to the hotel was quiet. Benedict was in another compartment, having overcome his terror to fall asleep almost immediately. For his part, Bruce felt too keyed-up to relax. Natasha sat next to him, her feet propped up on the cushion across. His eyes kept being drawn to the hidden compartment where she'd stashed the plans, even as he tried to concentrate on something else. 

It was Natasha who broke the silence first. "What is it?" 

He was startled. "Ah - what?" 

"You've been giving me looks for the past twenty minutes." Her foot nudged his. "Something on your mind?" 

He directed his eyes firmly out the window. "Are you really going to give SHIELD those plans?" 

"Yes, I am." 

The night outside was like a black smudge. "You don't have to." 

"What would I do, destroy them? Pretend they fell into a fire? Spill some acid on them? They're getting Benedict anyway. He could just draw them again." 

Bruce felt mulishly rebellious. "I _know._ But you can't tell me you think it's a good idea for SHIELD to have access to that weapon." 

He felt her shrug. Natasha was pragmatic. 

"Why did you invite me?" Bruce finally blurted out. 

For several moments Natasha was silent. "I thought it would be nice to get away. For you. And me, both of us together. Maybe . . ." 

"But neither of us can escape who we are." The spy whose mission came first, the man who turned into a monster. Their realities were unforgettable, unavoidable. 

Her sigh was soft. "No, we can't," she agreed, sounding wistful. She leaned her head on his shoulder. "I have my loyalties, Bruce." 

"I know." 

"They're not all to SHIELD," she added more quietly, then reached over to trace a finger over the cuff of his jacket, then slipped her hand into his. "Keep the cufflinks, Bruce."


End file.
